


invisible - like all the reasons

by orphan_account



Category: Arrested Development
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-11-11
Updated: 2007-11-11
Packaged: 2019-08-22 21:15:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16605581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: George Michael. Maeby. Not-quite-cousins and not-quite-love and not-quite-sex. They're not-quite-there. Yet.





	invisible - like all the reasons

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [invisible - like all the reasons](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/432275) by falseeeyelashes. 



i hope you notice  
i'm no hare and you're no tortoise

( _mama, won't you keep them castles in the air and burning?_ clap your hands say yeah)

 

* * *

 

He is often of the opinion that if he was born a girl instead of a boy, the majority of his thought processes and/or behavior would somehow be more acceptable and that much less humiliating.

George Michael should know better—this thought alone warrants embarrassment enough.

 

* * *

 

The first time George Michael and Maeby have sex is After Cabo, and, alright, it doesn't exactly qualify as sex in the traditional insert-tab-A-into-slot-B, penetration definition, but he came and so did she and that has to count for something.

He had trailed in through the door, behind Michael and Pop-Pop, all three of them with downcast eyes, Pop-Pop muttering under his breath about—well, you'd would rather not know.

"We're home!" Michael said, outstretched arms and a strained smile.

George Michael watched the refrigerator, his shoulders squared. He might have squawked out the word, "yeah!" while watching said refrigerator, but Tobias definitely engulfed him in a huge hug.

Somehow, later, it was the two of them, alone, the bunk beds and his unzipped suitcase yawing open—

She kissed him. She shut the door behind her and kissed him, full on the mouth, her fingers pushing at his shoulders, his shirt bunching.

It all kind of fell from there—her top on the floor, the top bunk hovering above them, making out, her hand finding its way inside his pants.

It didn't take much.

 

* * *

 

Good thing awkwardness is the same as _normal_ for him.

It all gets rather awkward; "She's not my cousin!" becomes his defensive line of thinking.

 

* * *

 

When graduation finally rolls around—Michael with his arm around his son's shoulders, a bright smile, the kind of picture both men go on to frame—there is a Bluth family party to celebrate, of course. And, sure, George Michael has a girlfriend at the time—Jan? Her? Maybe?—but he also has one too many glasses of the punch GOB ensured delivered an extra kick.

"I call it," GOB had said, "Donkey Punch! It's got that little something… extra"

"That's disgusting," Maeby answered.

This? This is when they actually fuck—all out, fumbling with the condom, Maeby wincing and George Michael finding Jesus Christ (Ann would have been proud), or so it seemed based on the litany of said Lord and Savior's name spilling from his lips before he came.

(He couldn't keep his hips still at all, the entire time—the second he had slid against her, his shoulders trembling, his weight full on his arms. Maeby had slid her hand around his cock, a soft, "Come on," muttered along his chin—and let's be honest: he nearly lost it then, her fingers small and circled tight. He might have said _gah_ , the syllable stretched long and loose, slipping inside her.

He couldn't stop thrusting, she felt too good, tight, wet, her legs wrapping around him, pulling him deeper, and it's one of those unimaginable things, you know? Like, nothing could have prepared him for this—the sounds from the party outside, the bass of the stereo still vibrating, the scrape of skin against the sheets, against each other, how _loud_ his breathing felt, _her_.)

"George Michael" is a lot of syllables to stamp out, mid-orgasm; Maeby succeeded all the same.

 

* * *

 

College is the same as separate ways and paths diverging, or whatever. George Michael chooses business and the East while Maeby hangs around, Hollywood and LA. 

And for him there might be keg stands he doesn't do, and for her there might be hipster friends and weird run-ins with the paparazzi; there may be the awkward hook-ups and even more awkward attempts at romance.

All this aside, they do share one thing, at least in common: the belief that one night stands aren't supposed to be with your sort-of cousins. Or maybe it's just George Michael who rationalizes things like this. Maeby might be still dating that guy from that not-quite reality TV show on MTV.

It's just a fact, or it should be.

But, really now, George Michael: let's be honest. One night stands are only supposed to happen  _once_. Hence their name, and all.

And while we're at it, collegiate one night stands aren't exactly supposed to occur under your family's roof, or, well, in this case, _families'_ roof, but that makes this kind of weird and places it in that moral gray area he really tries to avoid, but it happens, Christmastime, the house wrapped tight in tinsel.

After, "Fuck," she had breathed, his chest still catching and the sheets sliding low past her ribs, and,  _fuck_ , really, there are fire engines patterned across the blue of the sheets. He might have blushed.

When he headed back to school, she might have kissed him on the cheek, once.

 

* * *

 

Time passes.

They both have lives, in separate places.

Whether they admit it or not, they're both trying for something normal here.

It really goes against the Bluth line of thinking.

 

* * *

 

She has an assistant now. That's pretty awesome, right?

Maeby works in Hollywood. (Sometimes she still thinks of bunk beds and George Michael; sometimes she thinks of the way he had kissed her, gasped in her mouth, and how strangely perfect it had felt to wake up next to him. Once. Then the moment passes.)

At the Chateau Marmont, she wears sunglasses that would make her mother proud, for both the brand and their ridiculous price. Her t-shirt reads something vaguely offensive across it and someone mentions cocaine to her like she might be interested.

Her hair still curls, about her face, and the freckles still peak. She still looks a day over fifteen.

Maeby has never aspired for excellence. This really hasn't changed through the passage of time.

 

* * *

 

George Michael is twenty-five. He lives in Boston (or New York or Chicago or maybe it's Maryland) and he dates a nice young girl with a generic name and he works in an office and he types numbers and he's good at it, and the men at the oval table on the top floor like to whisper things like ‘promotion’ and ‘corner office’ and ‘future’ when they speak of him.

They've all almost forgiven him for being a Bluth.

There's a company party, and she comes with him, her hand resting just barely on his arm, her fingertips barely grazing the fabric of his sleeve.

"This is… my girlfriend," he introduces her as, all awkward starts and finishes, and she holds onto her glass of wine like it might save her, or maybe offer her tips on social graces and entertaining conversation starters; it does neither, and she just looks a bit like a scared rabbit. It's odd.

"Her?"

"Yeah."

"Huh."

He dumps her, accidentally. It's not like he misses her anyway.

 

* * *

 

Sex is weird, okay? And it only gets weirder when Buster marries Lucille 3.0 (don't ask) and they make Maeby be the flower girl and George Michael the ring bearer.

"They know how old we are, right?" Maeby asks, and the truth is that no, they don't, but she has gotten older and she likes to wear her hair loose around her face and glasses she doesn't need perched on the tip of her nose and if we're going to continue on in the vein of honesty, yes, those are men's shirts she wears because pretension is really, really big in Hollywood right now. Not that it's never, like,  _not_. But whatever.

They sit on the steps outside the reception hall and there is a lot of tulle to Maeby's dress, all light pink netting scraping against her knees and his; they knock together, once. George Michael's bow tie is undone, as is his top button. Lindsay is yelling, her voice getting lost and caught in the thick carpet in the hall, and Michael's more reasonable tone can be heard as well, the words marred by Buster yelling. Glass breaks.

"I, yeah," George Michael says, "I kind of doubt that."

They're both still young, and their knees sometimes touch, their fingers dangerously close on the purple carpet of the stairs, the banister solid behind his head, and he thinks California, he thinks  _her_ , but she's always been trouble like this. But that's first love for you, right?

He clears his throat, and somewhere, Lucille has joined the fray—a distinct "for God's  _sake_ ," filtering their way.

"I've missed you," he finally says. Maeby stills beneath the tulle, and there are flowers in her curls, her fingernails black. She bites her lip and watches the empty hall.

Finally, she turns. Her hand clamps down on his leg, her fingers wrapped just above his knee, and she smiles wide.

"Of course you did."

She picks her bouquet up and rises, mumbles about one of the Lucilles, them being late, and there's some profanity in there.

He follows, his hands in his pockets, and it's not like she didn't say she missed him too.


End file.
